MAY | NOV | Dec
| 21 |
2006 | 2010 | 2011
18 captures 21 Feb 01 - 21 Nov 10 |
| Close Help

# The Confessor

#### by Mark D F Shirley

The copyright of this article remains with the original author. Articles may be copied or distributed freely for personal non-profit use, provided that the author is properly credited.

Author's note: The setting for this story is the north-east of England. It is centred around the Covenant of Horsingas, as described in Lion of the North, except that the year is 1055AD. If anyone is interested in playing in this saga (the real location is the same as the saga location - based from Newcastle upon Tyne), please contact the author as he is desparate to start this saga...

King Edward the Confessor sits upon the throne of England, while MacBeth rules Scotland. Horsingas, sandwiched between the two, have long meddld in the affairs of both countries. Now, it seems, their plans are falling apart...

## Chapter One

"So, this is how it begins."

The man before the fire crumpled the parchment between his hands. It was the depth of winter, and even in this hall, with three fires blazing, the tall figure was wrapped up in a fur-lined cloak. He had a warrior's build, and his face, though scarred, was handsome, framed by a golden beard. His hair was a shade lighter than his beard, and in the custom of the Saxon nobility was worn long, providing much needed warmth on this chilly January morning.

"Leave me!" He gestured to the figure in the habit of a lay-brother that was waiting nervously a few paces away.

"No, belay that." The man froze in mid-turn, almost feeling the cold gaze of the man on his back. "Call the Council. They will need to be informed. Summon also a runner, and fetch clean parchment and quills. I will need to raise my levies."

The lay-brother scuttled off, relieved to be out of the presence of Sir Edwin, who was known for his mercurial moods and flashes of irrational temper. Crossing the room, Edwin pulled aside one of the heavy woollen drapes that kept the winter outside, revealing a narrow window. Very few of the windows at Horsingas had glass like this one, as most of the materials that they had were stolen from local communities, and glass was a rare commodity in Northumbria.

The view from his window was of the snow-covered Cheviot Hills. It had ceased to snow with the dawn, and unrelieved white now stretched as far as he could see to the south, right down to the village of Wark some three miles distant. Turning slightly to the west he could see his own estates of Bellingham, and behind that, the grim expanse of the Kielder moors.

Letting go of the drape, Sir Edwin of Hexham, Lord of Bellingham, and also Magus of the Order of Hermes and Warleader of Horsingas, returned to the warmth of the fire, pondering the ramifications that the betrayal of which he had just heard would have upon his plans.

~oOo~

The brethren that served the community of Horsingas worked quickly - by midday, the Council Chamber was prepared. The chamber lay at the heart of the community, which existed in the main entirely within one of the unnamed hills of the Cheviots. It had been excavated over a century beforehand, enlarged from pre-existing caverns, with all passages and rooms faced with stone, giving one the impression that one was within a castle, not a hill. Come chambers, like that of Sir Edwin, had exterior walls, but most lay within the interior of the hill.

Edwin sat on the high table, with a chair either side of him. Before him was a semi-circular trencher, at which there were four more chairs. To his left sat Sir Jehan of Surrey, to his right, Whitburh Frithowebba. Jehan sat straight in his chair, his face pensive. He was a tall man, and lithe, like many of the southern Saxons, but with broad shoulders that betrayed his Jutish blood. This was also evident in the reddish-blond colour of his hair and short-trimmed beard. Whitburh was older than both of them, though no-one was sure just how old. Her hair was as yet only lightly touched by the grey of age, and still unbound, as befits an unmarried woman. She dressed austerely, in plain peasant browns, though she deported herself like a noblewoman.

Before these three, all but one of the chairs was filled. To Jehan's left sat Giuseppe Del Mato, a stocky, dark man from southern Italy. He wore red and black silks, seemingly impervious to the cold. A mastiff wearing a spiked iron collar lay at his feet, awake and wary.

The seat next to him was vacant, and in the one next to that sat a short woman. Dressed in wool bleached to the purest white, she seemed similarly unaffected by the chill air. Her hair cascaded from her head like a frozen waterfall, the colour of freshly fallen snow, though she seemed no more than a score and a half in age. Her eyes, black as the night, glittered like faceted onyxes in the rush lighting of this hall. Her name was Ealwynn of Keswick, and she was seated next to her husband, as much a contrast to her beauty as Summer is to Winter. Coenwulf was a large, stocky man, his ugly face covered in a bristly beard. Upon his head he wore an ancient Saxon helm which covered most of his head and upper face. It was made of brass, and surmounted by the figure of a boar. Two ivory tusks curled upwards from the region of his mouth. From this helm, which he rarely removed, he had gained the name Eofurcumbol, which meant 'Boar-helm' in the Saxon tongue. His massive, bulky frame was covered in furs.

Just then, there was a disturbance at the door, and an ancient man entered the room, pushing aside the young man trying to help him. Clad, like most of the others, in rich furs, he walked with difficulty, using a knout of blackthorn to assist him. His straggly grey hair was sparse, and his face hid beneath thin lips a grimace of pain. At his entrance, most of the gathered people pointedly ignored the newcomer, but Edwin stood, his chair pushing back with a loud scraping.

"Ælfred. Welcome, pater. I thought not to see you today."

"You'll not be rid of me that easily, upstart! While I'm a member of this Council, I'll attend these meetings. That's one thing that you can't take away!" the old man's voice was weak, yet filled with malice fed by pain. He took his seat, and gathered his robes tighter around himself to keep out the chill.

Edwin remained standing. "I call to order this meeting of the witenagemot of Horsingas, the first since Yule, in the one-hundred and twenty-eighth year of England." The members of Horsingas were fiercely proud of their Saxon roots. Unlike the rest of the Order of Hermes, who used Latin as their official tongue, the Magi of Horsingas used Old Saxon. Thus, instead of a community of wizards being termed a 'covenant', it was instead a 'witenagemot', meaning a council of wise men.

"The reason for this meeting is this," Edwin continued, "Eorl Siward has committed his forces against MacBeth."

A hush settled over the room, followed by an outburst from Giuseppe, his Italian accent mangling the Old Saxon of his words. "But Siward is OUR tool! How did this happen?"

"We have been betrayed. It seems that the Eorl of Northumbria has, in secret, been taking council from two Scots, set to him by his brother-in-law, Malcolm Canmore, the challenger to MacBeth's throne. I know not yet from where they come, but I am sure that they are members of the covenant of Doire Druidhan."

"I knew it!" The words hissed from the lips of Ealwynn. "Those serpents! I suspected them when they first arrived, but four years since. I said we should crush them, but my call was quashed!" She looked venomously at Whitburh on the High Table, who returned her gaze calmly.

Edwin slapped his hand on the table. "Now is not the time for 'I told you so'! The deed is done, now we must minimise its effect. Canmore must not be allowed to ascend to the throne of Scotland - his family have ever claimed all land north of the Tees to be theirs. Ælfred - you were involved when Horsingas placed MacBeth on the throne of Scotland. Who can we expect to help us?"

"Oh, you want my help now, do you?" His voice was bitter with sarcasm. "When I needed help, did I get it? No! Instead I get thrown off the leadership of this council. What makes you think that I care one whit about who rules Scotland?"

Jehan cleared his throat to speak, but Whitburh got there before him. "Ælfred. I understand your bitterness, but greater things are at stake than your pride. We did what we felt necessary. Many will suffer if the line of Canmore regains the throne. Please, put aside your differences with us, and see the greater goal. You did once care enough about the Throne of Scotland to help place the crown on MacBeth's head."

The old man sat in silence for a few moments, a sour look upon his face, then spoke. "Very well. You're right, as always, Whitburh. Though I like it not, I'll help you, but for the sake of Horsingas, not for the likes of you! The covenant of Mhor Radh was our prime ally in the MacBeth campaign, though I liked it not - magi touched more by wyrd I never did see! The other Highland covenants will also work to keep a Highland king on the throne. Canmore was raised in England by the Confessor, and will not be popular with the Scots, despite the fact that his father unified Scotland. Mhor Radh have raised Lulach, MacBeth's heir, personally and he is strong in the ancient ways."

Jehan's cultured tones cut in over the older man, his southern accents sounding sinister to the Northumbrian magi to whom he spoke. "We must also be aware that Canmore is friends with King Edward. Eorl Siward may also be supported by the king."

"Then perhaps we should replace the Eorl." Ealwynn mused aloud.

"Ealwynn!" Whitburh admonished her, "It is bad enough that this Council is considering to once more meddle in the affairs of kings; but to sanction the murder of our liege lord is intolerable! Need I remind you that the Code of Hermes specifically prohibits what you are considering, and...

"Thank you, quaesitor," interrupted Jehan, "That will not be necessary. Really, Whitburh - you are starting to sound like the repetitive cawing of rooks!"

The older woman stiffened at that, and was about to make a retort, then Edwin intervened.

"That will be enough! Whitburh, you know full well that we would not need to be involved if others had backed off ere now. We are all in too deep - if that offends your sensibilities, then you can resign your seat at this Council. Jehan - keep your tongue under control in future! Such bickering is unseemly in one of your stature.

"Now, if I may suggest a course of action. Whitburh, why don't you see what you can do with Siward. As far as I know he is still in residence at Corbridge, and you have the most influence over him. While you're at it, scare off those interlopers. Jehan, Coenwulf, Giuseppe and myself will raise our levies, just in case.

"Is there any more business?" There was none.

~oOo~

"How am I supposed to stop an eorl going to war in support of his kinsman?" Whitburh raged, now safe in the privacy of her chambers.

"Why would you want to?" The voice startled Whitburh, for she thought that she was alone. Her head turned to the window, the source of the sound, and saw seated on the ledge a raven.

"Typical of the bird of carrion that you are, Raedbora", she said, addressing the raven, "Come to pick over an old woman's bones, have you?"

"Now, Whitburh, that hurts deeply. Nearly as much as Jehan's comment about rooks. Filthy birds!"

"So, you heard that then."

The raven lifted one wing, and preened its feathers. "I try not to miss your Council meetings. They are a constant source of amusement to me."

Whitburh crossed the room and tugged on a bell-pull. Within a minute, a servant was with her.

"Fetch luncheon for myself, and include a large round of cheese. And tell Burhred I will require her services." The servant returned shortly with a bowl of rich broth, a flagon of ale, some fresh oat-bread and a round of local cheese. The tray was laid upon the table, then the servant bowed and left. Whitburh picked up the cheese, and placed it on a leather stool by her side.

"Well?" She said to the raven, "Come and eat your lunch, then!"

"For me?" The raven exclaimed in mock surprise. "Why, Whitburh, be careful, else I might think you cared!" The bird flew across the room, and landed on the cheese, then proceeded to stab at it with its murderous-looking beak, tearing off pieces and swallowing them. Whitburh reached out her hand and stroked the raven's head fondly. "Of course I care, Raedbora. You know that I do."

The bird fixed her with its steely gaze for a moment. "Enough sentimentality. Don't you want to know what I've learned?"

"Why else would I have called you 'Counsellor'? What news do you have?"

"Well, Edwin was right. Doire Druidhan was responsible. His loyalty to Horsingas was overcome by his loyalty to his kinsman through the magics of Bricis of Devon, though the Magus called Somnifer played a part as well. I told you long ago that you should have bespelled him yourself."

"You know I wouldn't do that. The Code prohibits such direct interference. Doire Druidhan have overstepped the mark however, and will suffer for it. Where are they now?"

"They headed back north with Osbeorn Bulax, Siward's son. He is to command the Northumbrian forces on behalf of his aged father."

"Then they are beyond my concern for now. Do you have any suggestions on how to deal with Siward?"

"Well, Eorl Siward has an aunt, Abbess Gudfrith of Carlisle, who dotes upon him. Now should his aunt write to him, warning him that King Svein of Denmark, who just so happens to be her brother, is planning to invade England..."

"...he would recall his forces and prepare for attack, as they are sure to land on the Northumbrian coast! Raedbora, you are a genius!"

At that point, their was a timid knock on the door, and a young girl entered with a servant. "Ah, Burhred. Excellent timing." Turning to the servant, Whitburh commanded, "Get a courier saddled and waiting to take this message to the eorl's residence at Corbridge." The young man bowed and left.

"Buhred, take a seat at the desk - today you are going to practice your Latin."

Switching to that language, Whitburh began to dictate a letter. "Gudfrith, abbatissa Luguvallii suae sororis filio caro Siwardo salutem plurimam dicit..." Gudfrith, abbess of Carlisle, sends many greetings to her beloved nephew Siward...

Unseen by all in the room, the pile of furs left discarded at the door started to move, and from beneath them slipped an ermine, redesplendant in its white winter coat. The tiny creature flicked its black-tipped tail mischievously, and crept out of the door.

The next day, a courier on the way to Corbridge was attacked and killed by a ferocious wild boar. His body was not found until the snow began to melt in the late spring.

~oOo~

"I thought that you could control Siward!"

Another Council meeting had been called. It was early April, and Jehan stood before Whitburh, glaring at her over the High Table.

"I don't know what went wrong. He should have recalled Osbeorn by now..."

"...but instead he has met with Canmore's forces, and had taken much of the Borders! Your failure may have cost us our safety!"

"Jehan! Take your seat!" Edwin's voice was strained, but as forceful as ever. "Whitburh, I was relying upon you to find a way of settling this without need for our interference."

"Yes, I know" The older woman's voice cracked with frustration, "As I said, I don't know what went wrong. If Siward had received my letter, he would have recalled Osbeorn. As he hasn't, I can only conclude that for some reason, my missive didn't reach Corbridge." As she said this, she just happened to be looking in Ealwynn's direction, and caught the smug look that she hastily wiped off her face.

"It seems that we have no choice. MacBeth gave Northumbria to England as the price of his throne. Canmore will want it back. We must assist MacBeth, before it is too late. It looks like we are going to war."

"Why, my ears must be deceiving me!" Guiseppe's oily tones oozed sarcasm, "before my very eyes, I see a Proelius unwilling to fight!"

"It is not of war that I am weary" retorted Edwin, "but a constant need to disobey the Code of Hermes. Now, Giuseppe, the duguth stands at the ready, does it not?" A duguth was a band of Saxon weardmenn, or warriors.

"Indeed it is so. My crossbowmen stand ready, as do Coenwulf's baresarks. We have five dozen footmen and three dozen cavalry. In total, we have one hundred and forty-six weardmenn."

"Good. The Clan Nixon has promised us another hundred. I have raised the levies from my lands in Bellingham, making another eighty. We have a full sixteen-score men to ride to the aid of King MacBeth. It is not enough to swell the ranks of the Scottish king enough to ensure victory, but then we are behind Canmore's advancing army lines, and can harry them in the manner our men are best trained for."

Ælfred spoke up. "I have some additional information. I remembered something about the last campaign. Fourteen years ago, upon the night of King MacBeth's coronation, the Cailleach Diohrbhall, leader of Mhor Radh, laid a fate upon the new crowned king. She declared that he would not die except by the sword, but that no man born of woman shall end his life."

"Why, that wyrd is ridiculous! The Lowlanders may never have warrior-women in their ranks, but the Highlanders do!"

Ealwynn's outburst was cut off by the aged man. "Let me finish! The words spoken in the old witch's fate were in Pictish, and I was informed after it was translated for me that the word used for man can refer to either gender. MacBeth is immune to death by both man and woman. He will not die in battle!"

~oOo~

Sir Edwin of Hexham surveyed the men before him. They were gathered on the sward before the covenant. The spring sunshine glinted off polished helms and shields as the men shifted restlessly. The sky on this March morning was a brilliant blue, marred by not a single cloud. The air was crisp, a hint of the winter still lingering upon the gusty wind.

On the plain before him were the soldiers of his command, arrayed for war. To the fore were the one-hundred and fifty-odd weardmenn that made up Horsingas's own troops. They were armed and armoured with equipment plundered from their opponents over the years, so their armour ranged from chain hauberks to no armour at all, though the majority of the footmen wore cloth gambesons and helmets. They all carried a one-handed spear as well as a second weapon. Nearly forty of the men were mounted on sturdy Border ponies - these were the elite of the force before him. They all wore boiled leather armour at least, and an iron helmet, and carried a spear, a shield and a sword apiece.

To the left of the cavalry, in a huddle of their own, were the feared baresarks of Coenwulf's command. They consisted of about a score of men and one woman, wearing no armour, but carrying shields and hand ax. To the right were Giuseppe's men, nearly three dozen strong, all carrying one of the most feared weapons in the north, the crossbow.

Behind the men of Horsingas were another eight score. Approximately half of them were from the Clan Nixon, allies of Horsingas for many years. Theses tough Bordersmen dressed in leather jerkins and carrying long axs were the most unruly of the lot, laughing and drinking and swilling Border ale, despite the early hour. The other half were Edwin's own militia, raised from the estates that he held as a knight. Like the weardmenn of Horsingas, they all carried spears, but were a lot less adept in them having had far less military training.

"Sir Edwin?" It was Oswy, Edwin's squire. "I can't tack up Heard Healu. He's already maimed Jan when we tried to saddle him him." Heard Healu was Edwin's bad-tempered horse.

"It's all right, Oswy. He will be smelling the battle in the air. I'll see to him myself." Edwin crossed to the stables, checking first that no permanent harm had been done to the stable boy. The horse had bitten him severely on the shoulder, but already he had been seen to by a chirurgeon.

"What's all this fuss, then?" Edwin said to the horse, as he went confidently into the stable. The huge jet-black stallion bared its teeth and whinnied a challenge.

"Enough of that!" Edwin snapped, and the horse bowed its head submissively. As he started to tack up the stallion, he continued to talk to it. "You'll see enough blood soon enough. Why do you have to start the festivities early?" The knight himself was dressed in a ring-mail hauberk, and as he led the horse from the stable, Oswy was standing ready with his helm, shield and weapons. The shield was hung onto the pommel of the saddle while he strapped on the sword-belt which held his scrimsaex, a traditional Saxon one-edged broadsword. His battle-mace was hung through a loop on his sword-belt, and holding the helmet under one arm, he mounted Heard Healu.

The others who would accompany him joined him then. Sir Jehan rode a roan stallion, Giuseppe road a skittish bay, and Coenwulf approached on foot. With them rode John MacAlexander, tanist of the Clan Nixon, a handful of captains, and finally Oswy and Jehan's squire Iann. Jehan seemed comfortable in the saddle, but Giuseppe obviously hadn't ridden much, and his sumpter was jumpy and difficult to control, despite the fact that she was chosen for him because of her normally placid nature.

Coenwulf kept well away from the horses. He had never liked the beasts, and they seemed to sense that. As Edwin started to issue orders to the captains, the ugly man removed his boar-mounted helm and scratched his head briskly, trying to dislodge the community of insects that had taken up residence in his bristly hair. As he did so, he heard a gasp. John MacAlexander had not ridden with Horsingas before now, thus he had never seen uncovered face of Coenwulf before. The face of the warrior-wizard was wrinkled and folded, with much of its ugly expanse covered with his wiry beard. However, the most horrifying feature was generally believed to be part of his boar-helm, not part of his face - four inches of ivory tusk protruded from each side of Coenwulf's mouth, curling upwards from his lower jaw to rest on his seamed cheeks. They were the result of a magical accident early in Coenwulf's career, and he wore them as a badge of pride, not as a mark of shame. For obvious reasons, he usually kept his helm on his head, and allowed people to believe what they wanted about the origin of the tusks, but he still enjoyed gained a malicious delight in revealing his deformity to someone for the first time. Coenwulf grinned at the shocked Border lord, and replaced his helm.

"Right then, gentlemen" announced Sir Edwin, "Shall we be off?"

A ripple went through the crowd as the band of leaders started to move off, which raised to a roar started by the Nixon clansmen. The small army headed north, where, in five days, they were to reach the lands already conquered by their foe.

## Chapter Two

The fighting continued throughout the one hundred and fifty-fourth year of Our Lord. Whitburh, Ealwynn and Ælfred hardly saw their compatriots, except for occasional, brief visits home to bring goods plundered from the Scottish - both the natives and the army. They also brought reports on how the fighting went - the men from Horsingas engineered a process of whittling away at the army of Canmore, trying, whenever possible not to strike at fellow Northumbrians. They had managed to reduce the enemy by twice their own number, while suffering losses of only one man in ten. Most accredited the tactics of Sir Edwin, but credit also had to be given to the superiority of the weardmenn over the Scottish army.

When they returned for the winter, Edwin reported to the Council of Horsingas that, despite their efforts, the armies of Canmore and Siward still advanced upon the Scottish capitol, though at a slow pace. They had seen no sight of Scottish wizards in either the attacking or defending force; however, they heard that Osbeorn Siwardson had met his death at the hands of a Highland lord. This could mean only one thing - the veteran Siward would take the field himself when fighting resumed after the worst of the winter weather had passed.

A week after the Feast of the Annunciation, when all the snows had cleared, the Horsingas force rode out once more to do battle with the Scots.

~oOo~

The paws of the small creature padded along the corridor of York Castle, claws clicking against the cold flagstones. The stoat paused to sniff at the doors of each of the rooms it passed, though it suspected that it had not yet found the right chamber yet. It had had to hide several times from passing servants or guardsmen, but had been either able to conceal its small form entirely within the shadows or be mistaken for a rat, which though unwelcome, were not uncommon in the castle. Finally the stoat found the room that it had been searching for.

Ealwynn stepped into the chamber, her hair her only clothing, now russet-brown like the pelt of the animal whose shape she sometimes wore. The man within had his back to the door - a poor habit for a warrior-lord - and so he did not mark her entrance. He was arming himself for battle, struggling with the straps of the chainmail shirt.

"Here, my lord. Let me help you." Her soft tones startled the man, and he whirled to face her.

"Wh..who are you?" He stuttered, heart pounding with the shock.

"Your Walkyrjur, Eorl Siward, come to gird you for battle." He did nothing but stare as she glided towards him, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. The old eorl's eyes feasted on her naked form - to him she must have truly appeared as a goddess. His fingers dropped numbly from the buckle as she deftly tightened and fastened the stiff leather.

"You plan to lead the Northumbrians into battle on the morrow?" The old man merely nodded, confused and entranced at the same time. She handed him his long-ax which was, like the eorl, a veteran of many battles.

"Then let me bring you luck." Ealwynn reached up and laced her fingers behind the eorl's head, bringing him unresistingly to her lips. She could feel the blood pounding within the veins of his neck, his heart beating double-time as she crushed his lips to hers. She lapped at the blood welling from his mouth, and let him go, his lifeless body slumping to the ground at her shapely ankles.

"Sweet dreams, Siward" she whispered, as she silently left the room.

His men found him the next day, lying on the floor in a crumpled heap, his face bearing a look of utter horror.

~oOo~

Ealwynn snuggled closer to her husband beneath the furs, her movement causing him to wake from his light slumber.

"'Tis good to be home, wife." He mumbled blearily, gradually rousing from sleep. "I'm surprised to find both you and Whitburh still alive after leaving you alone together for so long."

He raised a hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes, and yawned mightily. "So what did you get up to while I was off slaughtering Scots?"

"Well, I killed Eorl Siward of Northumbria."

Coenwulf sat up suddenly, now fully awake.

"You...did what?" She gave him a wicked smile, but said nothing. Coenwulf stared at her for a few seconds, then started to laugh. "Oh my dear, venomous Ealwynn!" He flopped down amongst the blankets, and she laid her head upon his chest.

"Is my Lord not pleased?" She said in her most child-like voice.

"Why I suppose so. But for the love of Wod, why?"

She sighed to herself. However much she loved her husband, his lack of foresight tried her patience. How could she explain to her dim-witted husband that removing the eorl would leave vacant the seat of Northumbria, which was one of the most powerful in England. Siward's remaining son was below the age of minority, and even Edward the Confessor would not entrust these lands to a council of regents. No, instead he would appoint a new eorl, and there was only one real candidate - Tostig, third son of the now dead eorl Godwin. The family of Godwin was the most powerful in England - why, four years ago, the king had tried to check the power of Godwin and his sons after they disobeyed him, and the only recourse available to him was to have them all declared traitor. They all fled the country, gathered together their allies from Flanders and Ireland, and returned a year later to hold the Kingdom of England to ransom.

Harold Godwinson was Eorl of Wessex, the ancestral home of the Saxons, and Eadgyth his sister was Edward's queen. The family of Godwin was the epitome of the Saxon lifestyle which Horsingas had sworn to protect and nurture. Tostig was a favourite of both Edward and Eadgyth, and would also be accepted by the Northumbrians - his distinguished Danish ancestry through his mother made him particularly suited to rule the mainly Danish eorldom. This would bring the separatist eorldom back in line with the English throne. The family of Godwin was incidentally, also friends with some of Horsingas's more esoteric allies, such as Sigebryht Magus Ex Miscellanea of Seven Sisters Covenant.

"Why, my husband," she said, taking the easier path, "I knew that by his death, we would be apart for less time. I did it for you, my love." With that Coenwulf wrapped a hairy arm tightly around the slight form of his wife, and drifted off again, his tusks pressing against her delicate cheek and making faint grunting noises in his sleep.

~oOo~

A few weeks later, the Magi of Horsingas received a visitor. Just after noon, a lone figure was striking the main door and asking admittance. The guard let him in, more out of pity than duty, for a storm had been blowing for the last few days, and the man was soaked through. Coenwulf was the first Magus located by the runner from the gate guard - he was drinking ale with the duguth captain in the mess hall. Upon seeing the dripping figure in the yard, Coenwulf dropped his tankard and rushed down to meet him.

"Sigebryht!" he exclaimed, clasping forearms with the huge man and hugging him tightly.

"Hey, Coenwulf! I know it's been some time, but there's no need for both of us to get wet! Why don't you show me towards a fire?"

Laughing, the two men moved inside to the great hall, while servants were sent for dry towels, spiced wine and the other members of the covenant. Peeling off his sodden outer cloak, Sigebryht stood close to the fire. He was a huge man, even taller than Coenwulf, and broad-shouldered with it. His blond hair was cropped short for wearing under a helm, and his beard was kept the same way. Although he seemed no older then Coenwulf, he was over twice his age, and would be celebrating reaching his full count of three-score and ten years in the coming year. His magic had preserved his looks and his vitality, and would for many years to come. Sigebryht wore a thick woollen cloak over tunic and trews, as well as a pair of heavy gauntlets. A piece of hemp rope was wrapped thrice around his waist, and thrust through this was a two-foot shaft of oakwood, fashioned into a wand.

Just then, Whitburh and Edwin arrived, closely followed by the other Magi, excepting Giuseppe, who had left the covenant a few days previously for a few weeks on a mysterious mission. They were just as pleased to see Sigebryht as Coenwulf had been, and they spent an hour sitting by the fire, catching up on news. Sigebryht was a Magus of Seven Sisters Covenant in Wessex, though he had spent a lot of time in Northumbria, as his master in the Art of Magic had been a member of Horsingas before his unfortunate death in the war for MacBeth. Sigebryht had managed to keep above the petty intrigues of the Magi at Horsingas and remained a friend to all of them. He had an amicable, easy manner, and it was hard to dislike him for long.

"Now," said Sigebryht, placing his empty tankard on the ground decisively, "you must guess that I've not trekked three-hundred miles to pay a social call. Our plans have a problem - the eorl of East Anglia. Ælfgar, the son of Leofric, is receiving assistance from the covenant of Whitehollow. The House of Leofric and the House of Godwin have always opposed each other, and if we're not careful, Ælfgar could win the King's favour over Harold Godwinson.

"So far, Whitehollow has helped him with a few minor problems, to make the eorl shine in the eyes of the king. More importantly, the previous dour and ugly Ælfgar just recently has become a suspiciously charismatic fellow - heads turn when he passes, ladies swoon if he smiles at them, people laugh at his jokes - you get the picture. Thanks to all that, he is now in the position to seize Northumbria from Tostig - if not for himself, then for his son Edwine. At the moment, Tostig is the favourite, beloved of both the king and the queen, who is, of course, Tostig's sister. However, Ælfgar's popularity at court is rising quickly, and Tostig, the clumsy oaf that he is, has trodden on a few too many important toes. Whitehollow have been just a little too blatant for my liking - none have commented on the sudden change in Ælfgar yet, but they are bound to soon. I am concerned for the integrity of the Code - the meddling of Whitehollow is too close to the King and could have serious repercussions.

"That's why I've come to you. Despite your best efforts to conceal it from me, I know you've meddled in politics yourselves in the past." Only Whitburh had the decency to look shamefaced at this revelation. "That doesn't matter, now. If Ælfgar controls the largest eorldom in England and Magi of Whitehollow control him, irreparable damage is bound to be done. I'd do something about it myself, but my magic is, well...a little obvious."

They all smiled at this. Sigebryht was a warlock - a Magus who controlled the weather. He'd been known to stop arguments by calling down levin bolts of lightning with that oak wand of his. One side effect of his magic was a crack of thunder every time he released a spell - not appropriate for covert politicking.

They all sat in silence for a while, pondering the problem, then Ealwynn spoke up.

"I have a thought about what we can do. The matter of the eorldom will be discussed at the next Court, will it not?" Sigebryht nodded. "And this occurs in six weeks?" He nodded once more.

"Well, what I suggest, therefore, is this..."

As Ealwynn outlined her convoluted plan, Whitburh grew more and more agitated, and Sigebryht looked on disapprovingly. However, as they discussed it well into the night, eventually Sigebryht was brought around to grudgingly agree with her, though Whitburh was still less than enthusiastic. As a member of the Hermetic House of Guernicus, it was her duty to ensure that the Code of Hermes, the set of laws that governed the running of this order of wizards, was not broken. Ealwynn's plan called not only for a direct breach of the Code, but also that Whitburh, who was best at the magics of the mind, do it herself. Eventually, though, she acquiesced. As was pointed out to her, by undertaking this devilish scheme, she would be preventing a greater injustice from being done. The integrity of the Order would still be intact, and Horsingas would have a hold over Whitehollow.

~oOo~

The court opened in London on Lammasday, the day after the Feast of the Birth of St. Peter. King Edward of All England sat upon his cold stone throne, looking sternly at the gathering nobles. He was well into his middle age, and a simple circlet of gold rested upon his dark blond hair. His features were too exaggerated to be called handsome, with an over-large nose and receding chin bare of any beard. However, there was no question that he carried an air of authority and command which did not belong entirely to the crown he wore. The king was wearing an overmantle of expensive blue over pristine white robes that bore more than a passing resemblance to a clerical alb.

Behind him and on a step lower was the smaller throne of Queen Eadgyth. She wore a pale green dress and the wimple of a married woman. She had a hard, stern face - she was no more than three years younger than her husband, but bore her age less well. Some whispered that she was the true power of the throne, and it was true that she had more influence than any former queen of England, save only perhaps Queen Emma, who had been wife of two of the Kings of England, and mother of two more, including the current one. Today her face showed more than it's usual stern disapproval - lines of tension bore witness to the fact that today's proceedings had more than just a passing interest to her.

King Edward's face was hard as he watched the witan, his councillors, file into the court. The witenagemot had met earlier that day, and had revealed facts to the king that he would rather not have heard.

Hidden in the crowd were Sir Edwin and Whitburh, putting up the front of a noble bringing his aunt to court for the first time. As the witan filed in, Whitburh marked one of them immediately. It had always been her special skill to be able to spot a user of magical arts, and there was one among the wise men that bore the magic with an arrogance possessed only by the powerful. He was a dark haired, long faced man in his sixties with pale skin, and was dressed in expensive ceremonial robes that complemented those of both the king and the queen. As he approached closer to the spot where Whitburh and Edwin were standing, she could see that his hair was jet black, except at the temples where it had started to grey, and that his eyes were the colour of a stormy sea. She knew him immediately, if only by reputation - Berenguer, leader of Whitehollow Covenant. As the line of councillors moved right passed her, she froze like a hunted hind, frightened that he would spot her for what she was in the same way that she had detected him, but he stared straight ahead, his troubled face expressing that he had greater things on his mind. As he took his seat, she forced herself to relax. Berenguer was perhaps the most powerful Magus in the Britannian Tribunal - he was certainly the oldest, being over a century, and this granted him the accolade of being praeco, that is, titular head, of Britannia's Magi. If he was personally involved in the game, then it was serious indeed.

Once all of the witan were in place to the left of the thrones, the chancellor rapped his staff on the flagstones to call for silence, and William, Bishop of London, stood to open court.

"The court of the thirteenth year of the reign of His Majesty, King Edward is declared open. The authority of God Almighty falls upon the hands of the King, and may His Justice prevail throughout the land. In nomini patri, filii et sancti spiriti, Dominus nobiscum in aeturnum."

As Bishop William took his seat, the Chancellor of the King, Lord Ailred stood, and cleared his throat before announcing

"The first matter to be brought before this Summer court is that of the most serious charge - Treason!"

A sudden hush went over the court, and Ailred gestured at the guards standing by the sally port. They opened the door, and in marched two more guards, flanking a third man. He wore the crumpled attire of a nobleman, but had obviously not changed them in days. The unruliness of his hair and beard also betrayed evidence of his short imprisonment. However, he was still immediately recognised by all of the regulars at King Edward's court, for he was one of the four eorls of the first rank - Eorl Ælfgar of East Anglia. When he stood before the throne, he bowed in respect of the man upon it, but winced as he did so, and straightened stiffly. It seemed apparent that he had received the hospitality typical of the king's dungeons.

The king spoke, his voice shaking.

"What charges are brought before Our Court against Eorl Ælfgar Leofricsson of East Anglia?"

The chancellor answered the king, but spoke to the rest of the court, not for the benefit of the Edward.

"Eorl Ælfgar is charged with violating the person of the Queen, a charge named as Treason by the Law of Æthelbert."

All eyes looked at the queen, but her expression remained unchanged - she sat stoically under the scrutiny of the court.

The arguments raged for many hours. Ælfgar claimed that Queen Eadgyth had requested to see him, they had talked about inconsequential details, and then he left. The queen, being a woman, was not allowed to speak before the court and plead her case, however, an eorl of the third rank stood and offered to speak on behalf of the queen, to which the king readily agreed. For this, the eorl earned himself a look of daggers from Berenguer, who stood amidst the witan to the left of the king. Eorl Osgot of Warwick was, as Edwin reminded Whitburh, the nephew of Sigebryht. Osgot argued a different version of events. Queen Eadgyth had indeed asked to speak to the eorl, but when he got within her chambers, he began by making lewd suggestions, and followed that up with an assault. Witnesses were called by both sides, primarily servants, but all that these could confirm is that the queen and the eorl did meet at that time, something which neither party was denying. It was clear that it was the word of the eorl against that of the queen.

As the day wore on, and all the arguments and evidence was spent, Ælfgar stood alone before the throne. Though he had spoken most eloquently in his defence, his three days he had spent in prison as a suspected traitor were taking their toll. He looked tired, and clutched at his side as if it pained him.

"My Lord King, it comes to this", he pleaded, "Whom are you going to believe, Your Majesty - a loyal vassal and the son of a man who has served Your Majesty since you attained the throne, or a wench whom you yourself charged with treason not three years ere now?"

At these final words he slumped to the floor on his knees, no longer able to support himself. In compassion for his plight, the king gestured for a chair to be brought for him while the witan deliberated the evidence. The score or so men argued for nearly an hour; Berenguer arguing vehemently on behalf of Eorl Ælfgar. Despite this, the witan were divided almost equally. Eventually, the leader of the witan stepped forward, bowed deeply to the king, and said

"My Lord King, we regret that we are unable to offer rede. We cannot reach a consensus."

Wearily, the king nodded at the old man, who bowed once more, and returned to his place. The king sat for a few minutes before speaking.

"Though we are loathe to rule against a family who has remained loyal to us, we are equally loathe to ignore our Lady Queen, who is no foolish chattel whose tales are to be dismissed lightly. The charges brought by Our beloved queen are serious, and so We cannot dismiss the affair lightly. What man cannot divine, may God decide. Ælfgar will submit to Trial."

While servants were sent to fetch the materials necessary for the trial, Ælfgar wetted his lips and looked somewhat nervous, with good reason. The Trial by Iron was used in cases just like this, where it was impossible to make a judgement. The accused was made to pluck a hot iron from a brazier. Any sign of fear or hesitation to do so was seen as an admission of guilt, as the accused was showing unwillingness to submit to the justice of God. The accused was to hold the hot metal bar until unable to do so any longer, at which point his hand would be bound and left untouched for three days. At the end of this period, God would indicate His judgement by the state of the accused's hand. Should it be free from blistering and scarring, it was deemed that God had determined the man to be innocent, and he was set free. The alternative was punishment to the full extent of the law.

A large brazier was brought into the court, already filled with glowing coals. A plain iron bar was presented to Bishop William, who blessed it, and returned it to the King's gaoler who thrust it into the coals. While they waited for the iron to heat, the royal chirurgeon inspected Ælfgar's right hand, finding it free from any prior blemish. Ælfgar removed his tunic and undertunic, as they risked catching fire in such an ordeal and burning him further.

The court was deathly quiet throughout this preparation, and soon the popping and cracking of the iron bar could be heard as it expanded in the heat. Eventually, the gaoler deemed it to be ready, and bowed to the king, who indicated for the trial to begin with a slight nod of his head.

Ælfgar strode with false confidence up to the brazier, and stood before it, feeling the heat licking at his bare chest. Taking a deep breath, he reached in and plucked the baking-hot iron from the fire. As the metal touched his skin there was a loud hissing sound, and the smell of burnt flesh. Many ladies in the court, who had turned their heads from the sight fainted at the smell, and many of the men were looking pale. Whitburh and Edwin looked on though, the first with detached interest, the other with horrid revulsion. Still, Ælfgar gripped the rod, his teeth clenched with pain, his body doubled over, but he clung on, determined to not seem a coward. Eventually, with a tortured scream, he dropped the iron, and it fell clanging to the ground, followed closely by the crumpled body of Ælfgar, who had fainted with the agony. The chirurgeon rushed over and bound his hand with strips of white linen, ensured that the eorl had only fainted, then stood and bowed to the king.

"He will recover, Your Majesty."

Looking relieved, and very pale after witnessing the torment of a friend, the king announced in a voice weak with tension

"Court is adjourned, 'til three days hence."

~oOo~

For the first day and night, Ælfgar was in excrutiating pain, so intense that he could not sleep. Within his tortured mind he decided that God had found him guilty, and that he was suffering in Hell already. On the second day, however, the pain began to ebb away, and he fell exhusted into a dreamless slumber. By the end of that day, he was feeling well enough to eat the porridge that the guard at his chamber door brought him. The pain was still there, but it throbbed like a dull ache, flaring up on occasion. By the morning of the third day he was feeling reasonably well - he could flex the fingers of his right hand beneath their bandage without doubling up in pain. He chatted to the guard a little, but spent most of the time asleep.

On the morning of the fourth day since the trial by fire, and the day that his verdict would be announced, he received a visitor. A slight, balding man in the livery of the Royal household entered, carrying a pile of clothes.

"My Lord? I am the king's barber, and he bade me to bring you these clean clothes and a message. His Majesty asked me to tell you that he is assured of your innocence. He has spent the last three days in prayer, and is sure that God will attest to your freedom from guilt this morning."

"In faith, good barber," the eorl replied, "I am innocent, as shall be seen later today. Look," he flexed his bandaged fingers, "my wound ails me not. God is just indeed!"

"Praise God's Name!" replied the other man, "Lord, the king has instructed me to help you dress and prepare you for this morning's court. It may also please your Grace's heart to know that your father arrived in London last night."

The barber chattered away whilst helping Ælfgar to dress, then he removed scissors and comb from his belt pouch and started to groom the eorl, cutting his hair and trimming his beard. By the time the barber left, Ælfgar was feeling refreshed and ready for what lay before him.

The barber left the chambers of the eorl of East Anglia, nodding to the guard as he passed. He continued to stare staight ahead, unseeing and uncaring, just as he had when the barber had entered Ælfgar's chamber. The barber then hurried down the corridor, until he reached a chamber that he knew would be secure. Once inside, Ealwynn of Keswick allowed the glamour that covered her features to drop, and began quickly to change into her own clothes, dumping those that she had stolen from the barber down the garderobe. Straightening her dress and wimple, which she had affected for this occasion, she left the small chamber and went in search of her colleague.

~oOo~

The chapel was deserted, save for one lone figure kneeling in the Lady Chapel. Despite the stillness of Whitburh's body, her mind was turmoil.

Lord, I have tried to serve you well. Never before has my vow to Horsingas compromised my earlier vow to Thee, even though it contradicted the oaths I swore to the Order of Hermes. However, on this day I am asked to do something which I know is wrong, even though the cause is just. Do the ends truly justify the means?

"I thought I'd find you in here." Ealwynn's voice made the older woman start - she had expected not to be disturbed, as all else were gathering for court. "I've brought you what you need." Ealwynn cast a small pouch to the floor beside Whitburh, who absently picked it up and tucked it in her kirtle without inspecting the contents.

"Wrestling with your conscience, are you?", Ealwynn sneered.

"Something you know precious little about " Whitburh retorted, "By God's name, woman! Our actions today are certainly to consign a man to a traitor's death! Does that not bother you in the least?"

"You know why we must do it."

"Oh yes, I know. Despite what you claim, all our plotting has not been to protect England, or the King, or even Northumbria. It has been to protect ourselves and our precious goal. Such self-interest at the expense of others is no worthy pursuit, what ever the cause." Bitterly, Whitburh turned back to the altar, made the sign of the cross, then stood to face her colleague.

"I am a quaesitor, for the love of God! We have all sworn to the Code of Hermes which prohibits explicitly such interference with mundanes. I, as a quaesitor, have sworn to uphold that very same Code, and to ensure that others do the same. I have the power to order the death of one who has committed the crimes that we all have committed in the past, and are about to commit on this very day. What goal can be more important than the preservation of that Code, that has served and protected the Order for nigh-on three centuries?"

"Our goal, you fool!" Ealwynn hissed, "have you forgotten what lore we protect? What secrets lie at our hands? If the House of Godwin falls, then Horsingas will fall, for without powerful allies we are nothing. We cannot, under any circumstances, allow that which we know to fall into the hands of our enemies. That would be a bigger threat to the Order than our petty meddlings in the affairs of mundanes."

"Oh, I know all that!" Whitburh snapped testily, "But does that really justify us causing the death of an innocent man? What if God fated him for greatness?

"How do you know that we are not part of God's plan?" Ealwynn countered, "Is not the Divine ineffable?"

"I think it unlikely that you are one of God's tools! Quite the opposite, I'd say! In faith, I know what I must do, but I don't have to like it. Even Edwin sees that."

"Ah, yes, Edwin. We can't have his fine sensibilities damaged now, can we? I mean, his sense of honour is one of the things that turns your head, isn't it? Tell me, has he bedded you yet, or does he prefer women that could not be his grand-dam?"

Whitburh flushed, first with embarrassment, then with fury. Controlling her temper with difficulty, she brushed past the russet-clad woman, then whirled.

"What little friendship I held for you has been utterly spent by that last barb, you malicious little bitch. I will see you burn, Ealwynn of Keswick!"

With that, she stalked out. Ealwynn was left standing alone in the chill chapel, an evil smile playing on her lips.

~oOo~

Court was packed, as Whitburh squeezed her way through the gathered throng to where Edwin was already standing. He looked relieved to see her.

"I thought that you'd had second thoughts, Whitburh!" he quipped, with false cheer, "this is as close a place as I could get. Will it suffice?"

The quaesitor scanned the gallery area, which overlooked the main court, some thirty foot below.

"It'll do. As long as I can see my target, I can bespell him. Let us just hope that Ealwynn can keep her side of the plan." She found it difficult to hide the bitterness in her voice.

"I see that Ælfgar's father is at court today" Edwin continued conversationally. The aged Eorl Leofric of Mercia stood near to the throne. He was one of the four eorls of the first rank, which comprised the eorls of Mercia, Northumberland, East Anglia and Wessex. Leofric stood straight and proud, though he lent on a stick, and two nervous aides fussed around him. He was the only eorl that had served under the Danish kings who sill survived, and he was the last check against the power of the Godwinsons, as the two families were old opponents, but equally matched in power.

The chatter of many excited voices died away as the great doors at the end of the hall opened, and Bishop William strode in, at the head of the King's procession.

When Ealwynn left the chapel at the castle, she headed straight for the room that she had hired in a tavern down by the Thames. After leaving instructions with the innkeep that she was not to be disturbed, she retired to her room and barred the door. Ealwynn then spread out the dirty blanket that lay on the bed on the floor, and retrieved several items from her saddlebags. She then sat down on the blanket and prepared her magic.

Ælfgar was brought into the hall. His guards walked behind him this time, not gripping his arms like a common criminal. He was dressed in fine clothes, and thanks to Ealwynn's barbering, was as kempt as the king. He looked every inch the Saxon lord. Eorl Leofric stepped forth to greet him, and while the guards kept close, they did nothing to prevent father and son clasping arms. After a moment they disentangled and stepped away from each other, but those close to the eorl of Mercia could see that he had a tear in his faded blue eyes. Meanwhile, the eorl of East Anglia crossed the rest of the hall to stand before the king, where he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

Meanwhile, back at the inn, Ealwynn had begun. Before her, on a pewter plate, was a slab of meat of dubious origin that she had bought in the market a few days ago. On a small brazier before her, a clay crucible sat, the remains of a wax candle that she had stolen from the king's chapel melting within it. From a pouch she removed a handful of golden hairs, taken from Ælfgar's head that very morning. These were added to the melting wax as she began to chant. The maga's words were Latin, but the pronounciation and intonation was Saxon. Likewise, the chant was in a Saxon poetic metre, stanzas of four lines, each with two accented syllables and alliterative rhyming. Four lumpy brown bryony roots were added, which curiously enough dissolved immediately they touched the wax. Never breaking the chant for a moment, Ealwynn carefully poured the contents of the crucible over the piece of meat, the hot wax sizzling as it touched the cold meat.

The king's barber-surgeon, looking a touch out of sorts, approached Ælfgar and lifted his right arm. The eorl nodded at him in recognition, which the surgeon found puzzling, as the only time that they had met previously as far as he could remember, was three days ago, and the eorl was unconscious at the time. While the chirurgeon unwrapped Ælfgar's forearm, the king's chancellor reviewed for the benefit of the gathered nobles, the charges laid against the eorl of East Anglia, not that they needed it. For the last three days, the queen's allegation had been the talk of the capitol.

Ealwynn's spell had reached it's climax. The wax had hardened on the meat, the chant was near completion, only one thing remained. Her knife descended upon the wax-covered meat before her, slicing deep through the wax and to the bloody meat below.

At the same time as the final syllables of Ealwynn's spell, the barber-surgeon removed the last strip of linen from Ælfgar's forearm. The smell of putrefaction made him gag and reel. Exposed for all the court to see was evidence of Ælfgar's 'guilt' - his whole arm was red and inflamed, and hundreds of pustules covered it, the largest being on the palm of his hand; huge, suppurating ulcers that leaked a foul-smelling yellowish pus. The court stared in numb shock, so sure were they of the eorl's innocence, and then immediatley a hubbub of voices arose. This was what Whitburh had been waiting for. She already had in her hands the pouch that Ealwynn had given her in the chapel, she now took from it a pinch of familiar golden hairs, and cast her spell. Normally, her spell could not have gone unnoticed at court, the Latin incantation and the mystic gestures were far too obvious. However, with the noise and distraction beneath them, all eyes were on either Ælfgar or King Edward, and she took the risk, trying to be as quiet and discrete as possible. In a few seconds, the spell was set, and with a long careful look at the eorl of East Anglia, she cast her ensorcellment at him.

He felt the spell strike him, a dull pain at the front of his head. Had he not been mortified by the seeming betrayal of God in condemming an innocent man, he might have instinctively fought the spell. However, in his current mental condition, he was in no state to do so. The spell sunk deep into his mind.

Finally managing to get the court quiet by striking the foot of his staff loudly against the flagstones, Chancellor Ailred turned cold eyes towards Ælfgar.

"The guilty man might ease his punishment by admitting his guilt and showing remorse before the court," he announced, quoting from the laws of England. The punishment ordained for this crime was a traitor's death at the end of the rope, hanged like a commoner without honour. Admission of remorse might, should the king feel merciful, earn him an honourable death by the sword before he was hanged.

The eorl's eyes slowly lifted from his absessed hand, and his face flushed. Staring directly at the king with spell-clouded eyes, he snarled "Yes, I did it! Is that what you want me to say? I took the bitch in her very chambers, stretched out over the bed! That's more than you could ever say in truth, oh king! The way that she returned my lusts one would think that she was still a virgin, after a dozen years in wedlock. Let us see if the seed of a real man might fill her belly like your sterile seed never could!"

He was about to say more, but at a nod from the chancellor, one of the guards punched him in the belly, knocking the wind clear from his lungs. The other guard brought his clasped hands down on Ælfgar's bowed back, felling him with the blow. He lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the king's dais, and his mind cleared, the cold fog of Whitburh's spell which had taken control of him lifting suddenly with the King Edward's next words

"Remove this filth from Our presence," the king's voice was barely above a whisper, "and have him hanged. I want his head on a pole before the sun sets."

"My Liege!" Eorl Leofric stepped forward, his face pale and drawn. During the unwrapping of his son's wound, he had staggered and fell against his aides, but now he seemed composed, if weak.

"My Liege, I beg mercy! It is my right as an eorl and as a father to beg you for my son's life! Though his own words condemn him, he has ever been a close friend to thee, staying loyal to you when former allies rebelled and turned their faces away. Your Majesty, can you not be persuaded to spare his life in recognition for his former friendship, and the friendship of my family?"

The king's face was hard as he stared at the old eorl. Leofric had subtely reminded him that it was a king's place to be magnaminous and to show mercy.

"Very well. The life of Ælfgar, former eorl of East Anglia, is to be spared. He is declared exile, and must forthwith remove his person from the Kingdom of England and never to return. His lands will be forfeit, and return to the crown for redistribution, disinheriting his wife and children. Let none offer him succour, least they risk the fury of the King of England."

Ælfgar was lead from the hall, his head bowed, resigned to his fate. How could he claim that his words were not his, that at the moment of his statement, he had suddenly become utterly convinced of his own guilt? As he left the hall to his life in exile, the Maga who had perpetrated his demise turned and fled the court-hall, returning to the nearby chapel. Whitburh was unable to find solace there, but at least she could thank God that she had not been the instrument of a man's destruction.

Edwin also left the hall, heading for the ante-chamber where his squire was waiting.

"Oswy, we have been successful. Ælfgar has been found guilty, and is no threat to us. However, his life was spared through the honour of his father and the king. Let us not have that honour wasted. Gather a squad of men together, and have them escort Ælfgar of East Anglia to wherever he wishes. Most importantly, ensure that he leaves London intact. Many an exiled man has perished in the first hours of his shame at the hand of a glory-seeking soldier."

Oswy bowed, then hurried off to fulfill his master's orders. Edwin returned to the court-hall, to find the king adjourning the court until the afternoon, so that he could seek council from the witan. Later that afternoon, Tostig Godwinson was declared eorl of Northumbria, and surprisingly, his younger brother Gyrth was promoted to Eorl of East Anglia, though two of the southern shires, which included the borough of London, were confiscated and granted to the queen, the wronged party in this sorry affair. This was more than Horsingas could ever have hoped for. Three of the four major eorldoms were now held by sons of Godwin, and the eorl of the fourth was old and in ill health, with no legitimate heirs now that Ælfgar's family had been disinherited. Godwin, however, had had one more son...

This summer had been most profitable for the Magi of Horsingas.